


i can't wait another lifetime

by oddlyqueer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Coffee Shops, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are Engaged, FTM Enjolras, Grantaire Plays Guitar, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Trans Enjolras, i wrote this to cope hahahaha, its cute and fluffy and romantic, not a coffeeshop au though, oh yeah enjolras is trans, unlike barricade day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 22:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19118587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddlyqueer/pseuds/oddlyqueer
Summary: hope you liked this cute fluffy gay thing!!! enjoltaire is great and this is very fluffy and cute. i'd like to specially dedicate this to the lovely vivelapluto for being the wonder to my wall. (i know, cheesy. d'you like it?)as always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated!





	i can't wait another lifetime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivelapluto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelapluto/gifts).



It’s cold in the morning. That was the only thing that was really the same, Enjolras mused, that and the oppression. He wouldn’t much mind the cold if it weren’t for everything else.

The city was so overwhelming. Loud almost all the time, full of smoke from the factories and people alike, and bright. So fucking bright. He never really slept, though, so it never affected him. 

He rolled over in bed and his hand hit a pile of textbooks. Groaning, he sat up, pushing them off to the sides and standing up. It was hard to sleep most nights, so he would study instead. It usually paid off, but Combeferre always fussed over him not getting enough sleep, so he tried to keep the midnight impromptu study sessions to a minimum. Unfortunately, last night, his sleep schedule had decided that he didn’t really  _ need _ to go to bed, so he’d finished reading his law textbook and had moved on to his sociology assigned reading before passing out from exhaustion. 

_ That explains why I’m so sore, _ he thought, stretching. His back cracked loudly, and he winced. 

Making his way over to his tiny closet, he looked through for a suitable Saturday-morning outfit, but found nothing. Courfeyrac always teased him, even back then, that he never wore anything comfortable. He couldn’t really challenge that, to be perfectly honest, preferring structured clothes to comfortable ones. It wasn’t like he wore suits all the time, but casual usually missed the mark with him. 

Instead of changing into real clothes at—fuck, was it really only  _ seven? _ — he just stayed in his pajamas, throwing on an oversized sweater that he’d accidentally abducted from Bahorel at some point. The rest of the Amis were dedicated to giving him more comfortable clothing, and movie nights were a regular enough occurrence that they could usually coerce him into wearing something that didn’t button down the front. 

Wandering into the main area of his apartment, he sat down at the small table. Combeferre was already there, on his laptop with his glasses pushed up onto his head. 

“How’d you sleep?” he asked, looking up at Enjolras. 

“Well enough.” He left out the part about sociology at two-thirty in the morning. “You?”

“Not bad. You’re up early.” 

“It’s cold out,” he said, by way of an excuse. “You didn’t make any coffee yet?”

“There’s some hipster-y new place downtown. Same place as the Musain, actually.”

Enjolras bit his lip. A new cafe where the Musain used to be. Too perfect to just be a neat coincidence. Whenever things like that happened, they were definitely going to meet someone new. Well, maybe new wasn’t quite the right word for it.

When Enjolras was barely-sixteen and Combeferre was almost-seventeen, they had met. Literally collided with each other on their way into a classroom in high school. It was a bit of an awkward meeting, considering Combeferre was an awkward, shy outcast who had given a presentation on the Yeti and Enjolras was—well, he was Enjolras. 

They had become fast friends, and it wasn’t until Enjolras had confided that he had not-quite-memories of being shot to death in a strange, old-time cafe that they had put the pieces together. 

He used to think past lives were bullshit. When he met Combeferre, he started believing.

Whenever things from their past fell into place, they met someone new. Someone they had known  _ before _ . The first person was Courfeyrac, because of course it was, after they had covered the 1830s in history and he’d put a few out-of-place references in his presentation. The two had cornered him after class and explained, and after that they were inseparable. 

Meeting more people had been relatively methodical. Combeferre had found three at a conspiracy theory meetup in the summer, Enjolras had discovered one while putting up flyers for a rally he was planning, Courfeyrac had met two at some party he had gone to senior year. They had the whole group back—almost.

They had never quite managed to find Grantaire. No one had looked for him besides Enjolras—not that they didn’t want to, but he’d insisted on being the one to find him. There was… unfinished business between them. 

Combeferre broke Enjolras out of his daydreaming. “Do you want to go? To the cafe, I mean.”

“What?” He took a moment to process. “Yes. I do. Just—give me a moment, I need to get dressed.”

The time it took for him to shower and change was just enough for Combeferre to actually tear himself away from his news site and get his jacket and shoes on. Enjolras threw on the first coat he could find—it was a worn, charcoal-gray peacoat, and it was almost definitely Courfeyrac’s, but it was warm and that was what mattered. 

As they made their way through the midwinter Paris streets, Combeferre seemed like he wasn’t telling him something. He kept checking his phone and then immediately hiding the screen. 

“What’s wrong with you today?” Enjolras demanded. “You’re acting odd.”

“I’m not acting odd.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, glaring at Combeferre. “You’re not—normal right now.”

“Awfully polite of you to say,” Combeferre said, looking down at him. “And do you have anything else you want to share with me?”

“That isn’t what I meant,” said Enjolras angrily. “I didn’t—no, I just meant that you’re strange right now. You’re not acting like you usually do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Combeferre said, putting his hands in his pockets. Enjolras caught a glimpse of something shining on his finger before he did. 

“Was that a—” Enjolras grabbed his arm. “Oh my fucking god.”

There, on his ring finger, was a gold engagement band. 

“You weren’t going to  _ tell me? _ ” Enjolras said, staring down at the ring as if it would disappear when he looked at it hard enough. “Who—it’s Antoine, obviously. Don’t know why I even bothered to ask.”

“Are you alright?” Combeferre asked. 

“You didn’t fucking bother telling me?” He tried to pretend he wasn’t hurt. Everything was fine. He wasn’t hurt that Combeferre hadn’t even told him that he was getting married to Courfeyrac, that he hadn’t even been told about his best friend’s engagement— 

Combeferre sighed. “I was going to, Adrien.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

“He only proposed to me last night, okay? I got back really late, you were sleeping. I told you we were going out, didn’t I?”

Enjolras sighed. “You did,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge lately.”

“I’ve noticed. You’re not exactly quiet about it,” Combeferre said with a laugh. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

“I mean. I slept a little?” He paused, thinking. “An hour, maybe?"

“Adrien, that’s not healthy,” he said quietly. “You can’t just keep doing this every night.” Enjolras ignored him and just kept walking. 

As they finally approached the cafe, he looked it over a few times. 

It really was hipster. There were flyers for indie bands and slam poetry nights taped up in the windows, a string of fairy lights hanging across the doorframe, a spray-paint-stenciled OPEN sign on the door, and—of course—a guy with a ukulele sitting in the corner with a line of other musicians next to him. A sign taped onto the door proclaimed “MUSIC MORNINGS” in big letters. 

“Really, Claude? Is this what the Musain is now?”

“The coffee’s good,” he said with a shrug. “And I desperately need coffee.”

Enjolras sighed and walked in, hearing the tiny bells jingling overhead, because of course there are bells above the door. The ukulele guy got up and took a bow to the applause of the tiny crowd. 

Some guy wearing a beanie, who looked to be about their age, sat down on the stool onstage and tapped the mic with one hand. 

“This thing on?” he said with a laugh. “Hey everyone, I’m Rene, and I’m here to play y’all a song.”

“Do we really have to stay?” Enjolras asked.

“I’ve heard him before, he’s actually good. You just listen, I’ll get us coffee.”

The guy onstage kept talking, saying something about his favorite bands or something. He went on for a solid minute, telling everyone about some stupid indie band he listened to. 

“And that’s really what inspired me to do this song for you guys,” he said. “Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.”

Enjolras sighed sharply.

“Oh, look, we got a Wonderwall enthusiast here,” he said, much to Enjolras’s chagrin. The audience laughed, and he leaned back in the chair, biting his lip. “Do you have any requests, pretty boy?”

Enjolras hid his face in one hand, trying to ignore all the stares. He looked over at the counter to see if Combeferre was done yet, but he was just standing there, talking to the barista and watching Enjolras suffer there with the stupid guitar player— 

Wait.

He leaned forward, looking closer at the guy with the guitar. There was something about him that seemed so familiar. Enjolras couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about him that was really, really familiar to him. Maybe—no. It couldn’t be.

The guy with the guitar was still looking at him, strumming a few chords as he watched Enjolras. “The request still stands,” he said. “If you wanna give me a song, you… hm. What’s a good thing in exchange for a song request?” 

He pretended to think about it for a moment. “Got it. Your number.”

All of the people watching the scene started to laugh, yet again. It was honestly the most embarrassing situation he had ever been in. He was certain his face was bright red at this point.

“You are—you know what? Sure. Pick anything.”

“Give me your number first,” he said, and  _ god, _ his smirk was annoyingly cute. Enjolras sighed and picked up a napkin and pen. Someone in the crowd cheered.

As he approached the stage, the familiar aura got more obvious. There was something about him that he really recognized. The guitar guy leaned back, rocking on the stool but not falling off, somehow. His face still burning, Enjolras scribbled his number on the napkin and handed it to him.

As Annoying Guitar Guy took the napkin, their hands touched, and— 

_ Oh. _

It all came back in a moment. This was exactly what Enjolras had been hoping was not going to happen. Guitar Guy looked at him, wide-eyed, and fell off the stool. In spite of himself, Enjolras felt a little satisfied. 

“Holy shit,” he said. “Um, hey, I’m gonna take a rain check on the whole Wonderwall thing, I just have to—” He gestured vaguely towards the door, and picked up his guitar again, walking offstage. Enjolras noticed that he was still holding his hand.

“Are you—” Enjolras looked at him worriedly. “What—have you ever experienced that before? Is that—do you know what just happened? Because if you don’t, I just—”

“I have no fucking clue what you did, but I remembered—I don’t know,  _ something, _ and I don’t know what’s going on—” Enjolras recognized the panic of his first memory coming back. 

“Hey, whoa, are you okay, Adrien?” Combeferre said, walking over with two coffees. “Is that—wait a second, is that—” 

“Rene. Um. I don’t know why I know you, but I know you, and it’s really, really weirding me out, and if I’m honest, I just wanted your number, I didn’t—”

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re fine,” Combeferre said. “Do you remember anything else?”

“Um. I—I’ve met, like, one other person that I got this kind of, I dunno, memory blast with, but he was this really creepy cop that tried to arrest me one time and—” 

“Okay. So you only remembered the rest now?”

Grantaire—because of  _ course _ the obnoxious, flirty guitar player was Grantaire—nodded. “You’re… you two were my friends.”

“You remember everyone else, right?” Enjolras was desperate. “Because if you want—”

“You know them?” His voice was panicked. “I just remembered—we  _ died. _ ”

“We don’t talk about that,” Combeferre said sharply. Enjolras tugged on the sleeve of his coat. “So if you want to meet everyone, you can—we’re having a meeting tonight at the bistro just there, we haven’t been able to meet here because it wasn’t open, obviously.”

Grantaire nodded. “Um. Okay. I—you guys think they’ll  _ remember  _ me, right?”

“Of course,” Combeferre said. He looked almost surprised that he’d ask. “You’re—well, you were our friend. I’m sure they’ll all recognize you.”

He tugged on the sleeve of his hoodie. “I mean, I guess,” he said softly, looking down at his feet. 

This discovery should be great. He should be excited about this. After all, they had found everyone else, and this would mean they were all back together. That was a good thing, right?

But it wasn’t. It didn’t feel good, it felt awkward. He didn’t seem the same, and at the same time, he did. It was like he had met someone completely new as well as reunited with an old friend. Why was it so damn  _ awkward  _ with him? It wasn’t like they were strangers before. They’d been close. Well, if not close, they had at least been friends. 

“There’s a lot for you to catch up on, right?” Combeferre asked. “If you want to talk about it, about past lives or whatever, we could… I don’t have anything to do. You could get yourself a coffee, sit. We can talk.”

“That would… that’d be nice.” 

Combeferre got them a table. Someone else with an acoustic guitar was onstage, and the rest of the cafe had, thankfully, forgotten the events earlier. As they sipped their coffee, Grantaire ordered himself a coffee, and Enjolras stared vaguely out the window. 

His headache had worsened. All he could think about was Grantaire. 

Why was he so unable to get him out of his head?

When he’d met the others, he’d thought about them, sure, but nothing to this scale. His mind was racing—Grantaire. It wasn’t normal. This wasn’t normal. Of course he knew Grantaire before, but there seemed to be something there that he hadn’t noticed back then. If he could just think a little harder, just maybe look a little harder, he could— 

“Okay, got my coffee,” Grantaire said, snapping Enjolras out of it. “I have, like, a hundred questions, not the least of which being—what the fuck happened back there? Like, what was the—the thing when our hands touched?”

“When you—um—do something that’s very similar to something you did in your past life,  you… things happen.” Enjolras paused. “He’s better at explaining.”

“No, I think I get it. So when we touched—um, when our hands touched—the memories all came back, because it had happened in a similar situation before?”

“Yeah. It’s like, you have something happen to you before, and you get deja vu, except it’s in a different life.” He looked over at Combeferre. “For example, I was getting into an argument when I met Marius—you remember him, yes?”

Grantaire nodded. “Nice guy. Not all there, too obsessed with that chick he liked—but I can’t talk, I guess.”

“Hm?” Enjolras looked over at him quickly. “What?”

“Oh. Um.” Grantaire had gone slightly red. “I just—I mean, I did kind of hit on you just now, I’m sure it isn’t that much of a surprise, but I was, like, incredibly in love with you. Back then. You know.”

“You were?” Enjolras was at a loss for words, something that rarely happened. He couldn’t comprehend how his past self—a bit of an asshole, no sense of optics at all, didn’t even want to spend time with people—was attractive to  _ anyone, _ let alone Grantaire. Even back then, he’d kind of envied him for the way he could talk freely, act however he wanted, without repercussion.

“You didn’t know? I literally died next to you that day—I didn’t give a shit about the revolution or whatever, I just—” He paused, going even redder. “I just couldn’t bear living in a world without you,” he murmured, looking away.

Combeferre looked on at the two, amused. “So you’ve finally just talked to each other,” he said. “I’d hoped it would end this way. Last time it was insufferable, so much pining from across the room, it was—”

“You  _ knew? _ ” Grantaire said disbelievingly. 

“Believe me, R, everyone knew.”

“R,” he said. “I missed that.” After a short pause— “Wait, that’s not the point! Everyone knew?”

“You weren’t subtle,” Combeferre pointed out. “Honestly, I’m surprised Adrien didn’t know—you spent so much time staring at him, it was quite obvious to everyone.”

“I’m sorry, if it was that obvious, why didn’t I know about it?”

“You were kind of busy hating the government,” Grantaire said. “And it was—what, 1830? 1835? We’d have been, like, arrested or something.”

“No, we wouldn’t have,” Enjolras said without thinking. “We’d have been fine.”

“What? Why?” He looked so genuinely confused that it took Enjolras a few seconds to remember— _he doesn’t_ _know I’m trans._

“Um. I mean, uh—it wasn’t a crime? After—once the new monarchs were in place, it wasn’t criminalized anymore—”

“Yes. That’s right,” Combeferre said, evidently noticing Enjolras’s panic and jumping on board to help him out of it. “It was the one good thing about the monarchy.”

Grantaire looked unconvinced. “So I could’ve just—walked up to you and confessed? And I wouldn’t have been arrested or whatever? I mean, being just rejected is a step up from being rejected and then getting thrown in jail, but—”

“Why would I reject you?” Enjolras said. Again, he hadn’t been thinking.

“You—because I’m me?” Grantaire looked like he genuinely believed it. “Back then I was even worse. I had, like, a really bad drinking problem, worse than it is now, and I was a disaster and a cynical asshole and a total bitch to you, like, 24/7, and—”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” Enjolras said weakly. “For what it’s worth, if I had known then… well, it would have been nice to be given the opportunity to know in the first place, but if I had… you would not have been rejected. I seriously doubt it, anyway, if past-me and current-me are even a bit alike.”

“What do you—”

“I mean. I was gay even back than.” 

Combeferre pulled out his phone. Enjolras hadn’t heard it go off, but Combeferre looked down at the screen.

“Oh. I have to—” He gestured to the door. “Antoine just texted me, we have a fight to continue about whose last name we’re keeping. And there’s something about shopping, too. So.”

With that, he got up and walked right out the door, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras in the cafe. Alone. Together. 

“So you liked me?” Grantaire said, at the same time that Enjolras said “Are we going to talk about that?”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“To answer your question, yes, I suppose I did,” Enjolras said with a small smile. “And do. I think. Maybe.”

“As in, present tense?”

“Very much so.”

Grantaire studied him carefully. “You know, I thought you’d be different. You look different. A little. Not that much different, but different enough. I wouldn’t have really recognized you if it hadn’t been for the—” he pointed to the note— “that whole thing.”

“You’re not different at all. I mean, you’re different, because obviously you are, you can’t switch from the 19th century to the 21st without a bit of adjusting, but—” He shook his head. “I’m rambling. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I like your rambling. It’s cute.”

The sincerity of his compliment struck Enjolras. It was just so perfectly Grantaire that he couldn’t even process it for a few moments. 

“Thank you,” he said finally. 

Enjolras’s phone went off. “Oh. I have setup to do for the meeting, do you want to come along?”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, and stood up. They started towards the door and across the street to the Corinth, where Enjolras had been holding meetings for the past year. 

As Enjolras unlocked the door and started changing the sign from Closed to Open, Grantaire caught his wrist with one hand.

“May I kiss you?” he asked, out of the blue. 

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t know if that was too forward. I’m sorry. I just—I waited a lifetime for this last time, I don’t think I can wait another.”

“Oh. In that case…” He leaned up and kissed him once, softly. “Yes. I can't wait another lifetime, either.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked this cute fluffy gay thing!!! enjoltaire is great and this is very fluffy and cute. i'd like to specially dedicate this to the lovely vivelapluto for being the wonder to my wall. (i know, cheesy. d'you like it?)
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated!


End file.
